


Nobody Could Be That Clever

by hellointernetmynameisjohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, Murder-Suicide, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:58:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellointernetmynameisjohn/pseuds/hellointernetmynameisjohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is distraught after Sherlocks fall and he refuses to admit it ever happened. He insists that the detective is still alive and is willing to go to any lengths to prove it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Could Be That Clever

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! For any of you who have a Wattpad, my username there is sherlocksfall and I originally published this story over there a while ago, and I figured, Hey, way more people use AO3, so here I am! I hope you enjoy and I do apologize for the end. I'm truly sorry, but it's just how it had to be...

**Chapter One**  
  
 _The Return_  
  
John stares out the bus window as rain begins to fall. Three months, no word from Sherlock. Everyone keeps telling him to move on, that Sherlock's gone and he's not coming back. But he doesn't believe them. He can't believe them, because he knows Sherlock's still out there.  
  
The bus stops in front of Angelo's and John braces himself for his first trip back to Baker St. since Sherlock... disappeared. He unlocks the door and walks up the stairs slowly, still in denial, almost expecting Sherlock to be playing violin in front of the window, in loose pants and a t-shirt, with his crumpled blue robe overtop. He opens the door to a room full of dust and painful reality.  
  
Everything is where it was; Sherlock's experiments are still on the table, his music stand right next to his chair, the smell of putrefaction in the air. John steps into the musty room, kicking up dust that floats in the lazy afternoon light that slips through the cracks in the curtains and all the memories of that day come flooding back. He steps into the kitchen and stands perfectly still, just taking it all in. His hand trembles as he picks up a newspaper, the date still clear after months in the sun.  
  
Unable to handle the pain anymore, he collapses into his armchair and lets out a deep sob, his hand over his eyes. He has no one to blame except himself and he'll do what ever it takes to bring his Sherlock back. He stands, angry with himself for being so sad. He clenches the back of a dining room chair, grasping it so tight his knuckles turn white before shoving it into the table of beakers, screaming all the while.  
  
He sweeps the broken glass from the table and grabs a permanent marker from the drawer behind him. Uncapping it, he scrawls out Sherlock's name on the table. _**Murder,**_ he writes. _ **Locked rooms. Impossible crimes. Nonexistent evidence. Surprising people. Experiments. Violin. Puzzles. Annoying people to no end. BEING SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES.**_  
  
 _ **ME.**_

_******* _

_Calloused hands, overdeveloped biceps and triceps, suntan.  
  
Tennis player, Sherlock concluded.  
  
Receipt in his pocket dated the night before. Nice hotel across town.  
  
Affair.  
  
Discoloration to his finger tips, bulges in his lower lip and atrocious dental hygiene.  
  
Chews tobacco.  
 **  
**_"His wife," Sherlock announces in a bored draw.  
  
"But she was in Lond-"  
  
"Test his chewing tobacco for cyanide. I guarantee it will test positive. She poisoned it before she left and then set up her alibi," he explains as he stands, slipping his magnifying lens back into his pocket.  
  
His text alert pierces the silence.  
  
 _Found another one. Not far. More information to come._  
  
 _-MH_  
  
"If you'll excuse me, I've handed you the case and must be on my way," he says pulling open the door to the flat.  
  
He pulls his coat closer when he steps into the bitter air. He longs for his trench coat, but knows he's too easily recognized in it. His phone starts ringing and he answers.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Saint Vitus Cathedral," Mycroft replies.  
  
"All the way in Prague? I thought it was close?"  
  
"Oh, you're in Olomouc. It could be farther. Stop complaining."  
  
"It's one hundred seventy four miles, Mycroft! That's 'not far' to you?" Sherlock complains as one of Mycroft's cars pulls up and the door is opened for him.  
  
"It's a two and a half hour drive, Sherlock. You've been quite annoying since you died."  
  
"You're the one that refuses to let me speak to John."  
  
"Wow, that's a minute longer than you made it last time."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Mentioning John. You made it a minute longer this time."  
  
"Thrilling that you time me. What does that say about you?"  
  
"You've changed the subject now, Sherlock. Why didn't you just tell him?"  
  
Sherlock slides back in his seat, his head hitting the headrest hard. Mycroft knew. He'd always known. Sherlock couldn't hide anything from his brother.  
  
"He'd made it quite clear he's not gay."  
  
"And you never made it clear that you are."  
  
"I..."  
  
"You're a coward, Sherlock."  
  
"I believe we're done with this conversation," Sherlock says before hanging up.  
  
Staring out the window, he thinks of John. His ridiculous jumpers. His light blue eyes. The way his voice cracked as he asked, "Write a note when?"  
  
Sherlock is torn from his mind palace when his door is opened.  
  
"Have two hours passed already?"  
  
"They have," the chauffeur replies.  
  
They are idling in front of Saint Vitus Cathedral, its gothic architecture looming over them. Sherlock steps out of the car and his phone pings.  
  
 _He comes here every night to pray._  
  
 _For what, forgiveness for all the people he's killed?_ Sherlock replies.  
  
Switching his phone to silent, Sherlock walks around the huge building. It's only three o'clock, so the it's still open to the public. Sherlock enters through the Golden Portal, the former main entrance.  
  
 _How will I know it's him?_  
  
Sherlock is cracked over the head before his brother can respond.

*******

Insistent beeping stirs Sherlock from his slumber. He wakes up in a small, sparse room that he knows to be the spare at his brother's flat in Cardiff City. He's hooked up to a heart monitor, which is the cause of the beeping. He tries to sit up and groans in pain. His chest is wrapped in bloody gauze and his left arm is in a sling. He closes his eyes and tries to take a deep breath. Sharp pain sears in his chest.  
  
 _Broken ribs._  
  
His heart rate speeds up as he pulls himself to a sitting position, despite the protests of his internal organs. Purple bruises decorate his torso, each positioned to cause significant pain without being life threatening.  
  
 _Torture._  
  
Floorboards creak and Mycroft walks in, making straight for the television remote. Flicking on BBC News, he approaches Sherlock's bed.  
  
"We got him, Sherlock."  
  
"I should hope, based on the state I'm in."  
  
"I'm afraid we're going to have to bring you back a bit prematurely."  
  
"And why's that?"  
  
"London has a new serial killer, one who manages leave absolutely no trace of himself."  
  
"Then how do you know they're serial killings?"  
  
"The killer leaves a calling card every time," Mycroft says, turning his attention to the telly.  
  
A familiar yellow smily face fills the screen.  
  
"Someone's calling you out, Sherlock."

*******

Mycroft unhooks Sherlock from his heart monitor and helps him to the kitchen. As Mycroft puts the kettle on, a drowsy Lestrade stumbles into the room, wearing a blue robe with the initials MH embroidered on the pocket, a toothbrush dangling from his mouth.  
  
"Hey Myc, where's the tooth- oh, hey Sherlock," he says, awkwardly pulling Mycroft's robe on tighter.  
  
Sherlock realizes his mouth is hanging open and simply replies, "Detective Inspector."  
  
Mycroft clears his throat as he shuts the fridge. "Sherlock, I was meaning to tell you about this, but I didn't know how to bring it up."  
  
Sherlock swallows.  
  
"How long?"  
  
"Almost eight months," Lestrade replies, smiling softly at Mycroft.  
  
How could it be the Sherlock hadn't deduced this months ago?  
  
"And you knew I wasn't dead?"  
  
"Myc told me your ingenious plan a week after you 'jumped'. Hey," he says, bumping Mycroft, "where's the toothpaste? I can't seem to find any."  
  
"Oh, I used it all. There should be another tube under the sink."  
  
"Thanks, love."  
  
Greg walks out, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft alone in uncomfortable silence.  
  
"Love?" Sherlock says, raising an eyebrow. "Since when is Mycroft Holmes capable of such emotions?"  
  
"I'll have you know that I've been very happy these past few months, okay, Sherlock, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stay out of my love life!"  
  
The kettle begins to whistle and Mycroft busies himself with the tea. He hands Sherlock a cuppa, exactly the way he likes it and starts sipping his own. Lestrade walks back in, all dressed for work and Mycroft hands him his tea.  
  
"I have to get going. London's been having a bit of a murder problem while you were gone," he say, directing his attention to Sherlock.  
  
"So I've been told."  
  
"Your place tonight?" Mycroft asks.  
  
"Yeah, I'll call you later," Lestrade says, giving Mycroft a quick kiss goodbye.  
  
He nods at Sherlock, grabbing his keys from the counter. The front door slams before either of them speaks.  
  
"I've arranged for a car to take you to London once you're dressed. They're to drop you where the first body was found. And Sherlock," Mycroft says as Sherlock turns to get dressed, "it'll feel like déjà vu."  
  
 *******

When the car pulls up in front of Lauriston Gardens Sherlock doesn't know what to think. The building is taped off, exactly like it had been on his first case with John. _John._ It would be so easy to hop in a cab and drive down to Baker Street. To walk in and tell John how he really feels. Sherlock shakes his head. What's happened to you, Mr. Holmes? What has John Hamish Watson done to you?

*******

Sherlock walks into the building and straight up to the third floor, as if he's reliving A Study in Pink. He's led to the exact same room, but this time the door bares the sickly yellow calling card of London's newest serial killer.  
  
The body had been found several days ago, and Sherlock was presented with the crime scene photos by a female officer, who, upon being asked by Sherlock to leave, decided to stand in the doorway and stare at his arse. Sensing her gaze, he proceeded to slam the door in her face, again experiencing déjà vu.  
  
Holding up the crime scene photos, matching them to exactly where they were taken, he lets his mind palace do the rest. He recreates the crime scene, allowing him to walk around the corpse and conduct a proper investigation. Face down, positioned exactly as the woman had been, narrowing the killer down to someone who had seen the crime scene.  
  
 _A man, late thirties, early forties. Toned muscles, constantly active. Physically fit, red flannel shirt, long dirty blonde hair, ridiculously long, but well kept. Blue jeans, pockets bulging._  
  
 _Mental note: Ask for contents of pockets_  
  
 _No wedding band, gun powder residue caked under his right thumb nail._  
  
 _Constantly using a fire arm- possible work connection?_  
  
 _Very dry hands, with a white powder coating them- salt, maybe?_  
  
 _A pendent hangs around his neck, but the photos were taken from above and behind._

Deciding his mind palace has lost all usefulness, Sherlock opens his eyes. Opening the door, he shouts for someone to bring him the contents of the stiff's pockets and call him a cab. He needs to pay Molly a visit.

*******

Sherlock bursts into the mortuary like he never left. Molly jumps, nearly dropping a brain on the floor.  
  
"Is that the Lauriston Gardens body?" Sherlock says, hanging up his coat and scarf.  
  
"Hello to you, too! Three months, no word and then you come sauntering in like you own the place!"  
  
Molly had always known Sherlock was still alive and he was slightly taken aback by her reaction.  
  
"I'm sorry, it's just... this is the first interesting case I've had in ages and I thought... I'm sorry." He says again, rubbing Molly's arm and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. She giggles.  
  
"I was only joking, you dunce. Yes, this is the Lauriston Gardens body, and we're having quite a job to figure out who he is."  
  
"There was no identification found on the body?"  
  
"Not exactly. I tried running dentals and checking missing persons. Nothing."  
  
"What does that mean, not exactly? Oh, and they told me you had the contents of his pockets."  
  
Opening a drawer in front of her, Molly pulls out a large tub labeled John Doe 221b.  
  
Looking closer, Sherlock sees that almost everything in it is some form of identification, from US Marshal to FBI agent to drivers licenses to passports. The only thing that stands apart from the others is a plastic bag full of a powdered white substance.  
  
"Drugs?" he asks, suddenly itching for a fix.  
  
"No, actually. We ran it and it's rock salt. It was all over his hands, too."  
  
Sherlock glances at Molly, not sure if he should believe her. After all, she knew about his drug history and he wouldn't put it past her to lie to him so he wouldn't try to sneak a fix.  
  
"Don't believe me? Go ahead, try some," she says.  
  
"No, you would never let me near actual drugs."  
  
She giggles, saying, "The only thing we know for sure is that he's American."  
  
"Was there no wallet recovered with the body?"  
  
"No, but there were about seventeen different credit cards, and nine of them were maxed out, none of the bills payed, each taken out in a different name."  
  
"Well, this was clearly a serial killing, so the identity of the victim isn't absolutely necessary to find the killer. Cause of death?"  
  
Leading Sherlock to the autopsy table, Molly shows him a large bruise below the victims right ear.  
  
"The killer jammed a blunt object directly into the Vagus nerve with immense strength, causing the victim to go into cardiac arrest."  
  
"That would take an enormous amount of force and knowledge of the human nervous system. I think we're looking for someone with a medical background, possibly a surgeon or a chiropractor."  
  
"I have the other two victims here, as well, each of them as impossible to identify, male, late thirties, killed in the same way, all American."  
  
"I don't have to see them. Where were they found?"  
  
"An abandoned subway terminal and..."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Apartment 221c."

*******

"Ah, Hudders," Sherlock says. He's promptly greeted with a smack in the face. Wincing he says, "I probably deserved that."  
  
"Three months Sherlock! Three months ago you died! How are you here? Do you have any idea what you put me through? What you put John through? And then they find a body here on an anonymous tip!"  
  
"Yeah, about that, can I see the crime scene? I'm hunting a serial killer."  
  
"Of course you are! Don't you ever think of anything else?"  
  
"No, not really," he says, pushing past her despite her protests. Apartment 221c is taped off, the door hanging open. The smily face hangs there, taunting Sherlock, reminding him of a time when he was bored and throwing it back in his face.  
  
You're not bored now, are you Sherlock?  
  
He can hear Moriarty now, even after death the man haunts him. The room is as sparse as it had been the last time he was there, only now there were footprints all through the dust coating the floor.  
  
The most recent victim had been found here just this morning. It was clear from the drag marks in the dust that the victim had been killed elsewhere and brought to the apartment, the crime scenes each targeted at Sherlock. Whoever was doing this was clearly wanted his attention and they chose the most effective way possible.  
  
Determining that the crime scene has nothing left to offer, Sherlock can't take it anymore. He rushes up to 221b, jamming his key in the lock and bursting into his favorite place on Earth.  
  
Dust hangs in the air and a draft blows around the papers scattered on the floor. Sherlock's research is thrown around the room, his chair overturned, his music stand dismantled.  
  
Everything had been thrown from the kitchen table, and across it, in permanent marker, someone had written everything that entertained Sherlock.  
  
 _ **Murder. Locked rooms. Impossible crimes. Nonexistent evidence. Surprising people. Experiments. Violin. Puzzles. Annoying people to no end. BEING SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES.**_  
  
 _ **ME.**_  
  
John's handwriting. Sherlock would know it anywhere, even in his sloppy, sloping fit of rage. An envelope sits on the table. Mr. Holmes is written gracefully on it, still John's handwriting, but his hand had been steady, dangerously so. Carefully removing it's contents, Sherlock lets the envelope fall to the floor. Three documents fall into his hand, the first of which is a letter:  
  
Dear Mr. Holmes,  
  
SMILE.  
  
Sherlock's heart stops dead in his chest. This can't be what he thinks it is, it just can't. The second paper is a map of the London Underground with an abandoned station starred. The third paper is a composition that Sherlock had been working on before the fall. He had titled it My John and hidden it behind all his other music. What is written on it now almost makes him sick. A yellow smiley face stares back at him, along with the words,  
  
THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.

*******

The station smells of old petrol and mildew. The floodlights flicker, unused to functioning properly. A shaded figure waits for Sherlock on the platform, his back turned, staring down the tunnel.  
  
"John," Sherlock says, his voice cracking.  
  
"Sherlock," John replies, his voice cool and clear.  
  
He turns to face the man he once loved, his icy gaze breaking Sherlock's heart. Sherlock sees the gun in John's pocket, the hilt of a knife protruding from under his coat.  
  
Noticing Sherlock's stare, John says, "Do you like it," he unsheathes the knife, "I found it in an antique store downtown." The blade glints in the light.  
  
"I would have loved to stab them, but cardiac arrest is so much slower and cleaner."  
  
He smiles at Sherlock, the cool, confident smile that shows just how angry he truly is. "You left me, Sherlock." The pain in John's voice is like a blow to the chest. "You left me in a world where everyone told me to give up, that you were never coming back. WELL YOU'RE HERE NOW, AREN'T YOU SHERLOCK? I WAS RIGHT!"  
  
John is broken. So very broken. What have you done to him, Sherlock? What have you done?  
  
"I loved you, you know. Of course you know, YOU'RE SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES! YOU KNOW EVERYTHING!" John's voice echoes around the station and his words echo in Sherlock's head.  
  
"I loved you, you know."  
  
Sherlock walks to the broken man and pulls him into an embrace. He feels John relax into the hug, and then a sudden sharp pain in his abdomen.  
  
"Sorry, Sherlock. But this is the only way we can be together."  
  
Sherlock pulls away and stares down at the knife protruding from his chest.  
  
"This is how it had to be," John says, pulling the gun from his pocket, "This is how it had to be."  
  
He sticks the barrel in his mouth, pulling the trigger without a second thought. The shot rings through the tunnels, echoing through the night. Sherlock's vision is blurring as John drops to the ground. Slowly removing the knife from his chest, he casts it aside and runs to his friend, ignoring the pain.  
  
Blood pools around John's head. Sherlock clutches his broken body to his chest, sobs wracking his body. He carefully laces his fingers in John's and everything goes black.

*******

**Author's Note:**

> I did warn you.


End file.
